The Joy of Less

by Amy Newmark

  I’m certainly not perfect. Occasionally, I bring home an item of clothing or something for the house because I need a lift or a change of scenery. More and more, however, I’m finding that the real key to living a life that resembles the nineteenth century is being content with what I have. Doing so helps me slow down and focus my attention on making memories… and enjoying a clutter-free closet each morning.

  ~Joy Choquette

  The Lesson of the Mandala

  It’s usually quite hard to let go and move on, but once you do, you’ll feel free and realize it was the best decision you’ve ever made.

  ~Author Unknown

  I pushed and shoved then I pushed some more. When did my closet get so full? I looked down at the two shopping bags of clothes purchased on my latest spree. Maybe it was time to admit I had a problem.

  Like many women, I always loved to shop. In my teen years, I was what my girlfriends and I affectionately called “a mall rat,” a girl who hung out at the mall every weekend, checking out the current fashions while simultaneously checking out other teenagers of the male persuasion. Fast-forward twenty-five years. After the death of my mother, I once again found pleasure in walking the mall. No longer bound by caregiving responsibilities, I could spend as much time there as I pleased, have a pleasant lunch in the food court and get a bit of exercise in a temperature-controlled environment. It was the perfect activity. And now I even had something I didn’t have as a teenager — credit cards.

  Armed with my plastic and fueled by the sugar and caffeine of a tall mocha latte, I could shop for hours, returning home with incredible bargains. I’d hold up a sweater for my husband to see. “Can you believe this was only eight dollars?” I’d proclaim proudly. “And this one,” I’d say while lifting a pair of slacks, “cost only slightly more — and it has a designer label!”

  Oh, I was quite the shopper all right. It didn’t matter to me that my sweater drawer overflowed and caused me to annex the extras to a storage container shoved under the bed. Nor did I mind when an excess of accessories was required to be housed in a plastic box atop my dresser. It had been so long since I did anything special for myself, I rationalized. I deserved some new things.

  Yet now I was forced to take a closer look at my situation. I poked around my overstuffed closet and pulled out a few of my more recent purchases: a poncho emblazoned with butterflies, two pair of leopard leggings, two blue blazers and several sets of T-shirts in duplicate colors. Clearly, I had gone from a bargain shopper to a shopping warrior whose battle cry was “one if on sale, two if on clearance!”

  Cleaning out my closet and drawers created a domino effect of benefits.

  I slowly pulled a few more articles out of my closet and laid them on the floor in a careful circle, creating a sort of textile mandala. Long ago, when I still had time to read, I recalled reading about the Buddhist monks of Tibet who painstakingly created mandalas, a circular design created with colored sand, only to disassemble them upon their completion, signifying the impermanence of life. The letting go, they feel, is as important as the act of creation itself. It is only through the letting go, they believe, that growth and healing can take place. Yes, nothing is forever, I thought, looking back on my mother’s long illness and her ultimate passing. It was time to let go.

  I pulled each piece of clothing out of my closet and sorted them into several piles. Clothing with tags still attached would be returned to the store for a refund. Worn out clothing would go directly into the trash. Anything still in good condition but in a wrong size, style or color for me would be donated to an organization that helped women in need. The remainder would be returned to my closet. After that, I vowed, there would be no more shopping for a long, long time.

  This act, which took all of about an hour, was exhilarating and freeing in a way I could have never imagined. Cleaning out my closet and drawers created a domino effect of benefits. Dressing each morning became a much simpler task since it was easier to both find and select outfits in a closet that had room to spare. Housecleaning became less of a chore once I no longer had to move boxes and bags of clothing to accomplish the task. Weekends were much freer, as well, once I wasn’t spending so much time at the mall bargain hunting. No longer did I have to reconcile charge bills, file away receipts and run to the bank to transfer money for department store payments.

  Now, with my newfound spare time, I make frequent trips to the library and catch up on my reading. I took up knitting again and committed to making two sweaters a year for a worldwide organization that distributes them to needy children. I renewed old friendships that had been put on hiatus during my caregiving days, and if I want to take a walk I lace up my sneakers and pound the pavement in the fresh air regardless of temperature. My life is varied and full again, all because I let go. It’s true really, I think, what the Tibetan monks say. The real healing comes from the letting go.

  ~Monica A. Andermann

  Waste Not, Want Not

  The more you have, the more you are occupied. The less you have, the more free you are.

  ~Mother Teresa

  I reached up to grab a spare blanket from the top shelf of the closet and was immediately pelted by additional covers, spare pillows and assorted quilts shrouding me like a tent. “I have GOT to get my act together,” I muttered.

  I was never “neat” or “organized.” My closets were jammed with clothes that fit, might fit one day, or would never fit but gave me hope. My important document storage consisted of one empty accordion file surrounded by bulging bags separated by year. My bathroom contained expired or partially used creams, shampoos, toothpaste, deodorants and other hygiene products that I kept in case I ran out of my usual items. I even had three junk drawers instead of the customary one. Meanwhile, my kitchen utensils sat crammed in jars on the counter or in a jumbled mess in one top drawer.

  I’m not a hoarder, but I did grow up in an environment where we didn’t discard things simply because they were outdated or worn out. My parents repaired what was broken and improvised with what we owned, finding different uses long after a cold cream jar or sturdy box was empty. The tip of a broken shoelace from a skate could easily be dipped in wax and reused on sneakers, while a ratty, torn dishtowel became a useful dust cloth. We recycled long before it became a “green” thing.

  I extricated myself, kicked the pile of bedding aside into a heap and went to pour a cup of coffee.

  “I need to make changes,” I mused, sipping the hot brew, but the task seemed monumental.

  I didn’t even know where to begin. A tour of the house was unnecessary. I knew what I’d find. A mental inventory of the flotsam and jetsam of my life ran through my head, and it all boiled down to one thing — unnecessary clutter. Every nook and cranny of our adequately large home was filled with what I often deluded myself into believing were “prized possessions.”

  For starters, I had six shelves of knick-knacks — three for teapots and three filled with ceramic cats — all covered with a film of dust. I never actually intended to collect either, but once I had two of each, well meaning friends and relatives assumed I wanted more and I was inundated with them for Christmas and birthdays.

  Family photos dotted the walls, and loose, curled snapshots were tucked into the corners awaiting more frames that I “eventually” planned to buy.

  I had sufficient stemware and other assorted crystal to provide toasts for everyone in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Enough pots, pans, plates, bowls and dishes to open a soup kitchen were wedged into my cupboards, and three complete sets of cutlery — services for eight — jangled every time I pulled open the drawer. At least twenty unused mugs with cute sayings sat on shelves; we only used our two favorites. Unmatched glasses, their companions long shattered, were mixed in with newer full sets I couldn’t resist buying on sale.

  My office was a mess, too. Bookcases were tightly packed with notebooks, steno pads, copy books, stationery and multiple packs of notebook paper from my son’s school days tha
t ended more than a decade before, many still in their original plastic wrap. Pens, many of them already dried up, were crammed in jars, jugs, cases and boxes. Rulers, pencils, erasers, and markers I never used lay stacked and forgotten in caddies. Two old computers sat in a corner for one of those “you never know” days.

  Even the guest room bulged with junk — outdated video games, a broken TV set, board games we never played. The dresser was filled with memorabilia dating back to my son’s birth more than thirty years ago. Drawings yellowed from being stuck on the fridge, childishly scrawled notes, handmade greeting cards — even his hospital bracelet from the day he was born — all items I intended to catalogue when I had time. Another contained his baby blankets and stained christening suit.

  “Why am I holding on to so much stuff?” I asked myself out loud.

  Just then, the dog wandered in with the stuffed rabbit he carried everywhere. He had at least twenty toys, yet he favored this mangled little bunny, ignoring all the others.

  “I need to be more like you, Jack,” I told him. He wagged his tail and lay at my feet with a contented sigh.

  As I watched him, I realized that I could, in fact, be like him — satisfied with only my preferred items. With a sudden burst of energy, I decided to begin right away.

  As I suspected, I never even missed what I’d packed away all those months ago.

  I started with the living room. I carefully sorted through all the items, placing those I didn’t like or use into boxes, dating them for exactly one year later. I stored duplicate stuff in bins for a garage sale, and planned to put the profits in a separate account, earmarking it to replace anything that broke at a later date. “Someday” and “in case” possessions went directly into the trash or, if in good condition, to a pile for donations.

  The souvenirs of my son’s childhood, along with all the loose photographs, were scanned and saved on a disk to be stored in a safety deposit box. I had long ago bought scrapbooks and photo albums, and vowed to begin categorizing the originals that same week.

  I managed to go through four rooms that day. My bathroom was spotless, containing only what we used. I couldn’t believe how much more spacious the house was beginning to look. Shelves held only the things we loved.

  I allowed myself only one storage case for sheer sentimental value. Surprisingly, it was only half full, even with two of those favorite blankets. The christening suit was discarded. I had plenty of photographs immortalizing it. By the end of the week, I’d managed to organize most of our belongings. The dog didn’t even notice that the toys I donated to the local animal shelter were gone.

  A year later, I parted with my final hoard. The contents of those dated, unopened bins earned me several hundred dollars at yet another garage sale. As I suspected, I never even missed what I’d packed away all those months ago.

  Not only did I de-clutter my home, but an added bonus was that my mind was now de-cluttered as well. By staying on top of mess, I no longer panic over disorganization and hurried cleaning when company drops in — well, except for my office. That door still remains closed, but I’m working on that. Maybe next year…

  ~Marya Morin

  What a Birthday Should Look Like

  We worry about what a child will become tomorrow, yet we forget that he is someone today.

  ~Stacia Tauscher

  We just celebrated my son’s ninth birthday. If you had asked me ten years ago what my future son’s ninth birthday would look like, I might have described the perfect summer pool party. Something rambunctious and loud and perfectly planned. Water balloons and cannonball contests and twenty sun-kissed kids clamoring around a cake shaped like a surfboard. Hot dogs and music and drinks in red plastic cups for the adults.

  My son’s ninth birthday looked absolutely nothing like that.

  This is what we do, we special needs parents. We compare what we think a childhood should look like to what our kid’s experience actually is. I play this game a lot, and it’s like Tic Tac Toe — nobody wins.

  This birthday, I stopped myself from creating the day I thought my son should want. I didn’t plan a thing. There were no invitations and no guests. I told my autistic son to plan his perfect day, and I sat back and followed his lead.

  His plan involved sleeping in my bed on his “birthday eve” so he could “wake up really early to a birthday hug.” He wanted me to decorate the chandelier over the kitchen island so he “could feel happy all day.” He wanted waffles; he wanted his therapist to make him a card; he wanted Hailey, his long-time sitter, to take him to see his favorite airplane; he wanted a funny video from his uncle; and he wanted to eat cheese pizza with candles on it with his mom and dad.

  There was no fanfare, no plethora of presents, no big to-do. My son’s birthday was simple and easy, and pared down to only those things that were important to him.

  As I tucked my son into bed at the end of the day, his eyes half-closed with exhaustion, I asked him how his ninth birthday was. He smiled. “It was so awesome, Mom. I sure am loved.”

  My son’s birthday was simple and easy, and pared down to only those things that were important to him.

  I sure am loved.

  My son has such a difficult time in so many areas, but he knows exactly how to make himself feel happy and loved. It makes me wonder who is really teaching who here.

  My son’s ninth birthday was nothing like I would have planned. But for the first time, it was everything it was supposed to be.

  ~Rebecca Smith Masterson

  Fifty-Two Weeks

  You can’t lead anyone else further than you have gone yourself.

  ~Gene Mauch

  I kept complaining that my grown children wouldn’t clean up their rooms in my house, even though they’ve both had their own homes for years. I even wrapped up some of their things and gave them their own stuff for Christmas! My husband Bill was also tired of hearing my snide remarks about his “souvenir T-shirt” drawer and all his college books that occupy valuable, shared bookshelf space. I call him the Territorial Imperialist. If you aren’t sure what I’m referring to, please ask Bill for one of his college books and you can look it up… and please don’t return the book.

  In a rare fit of self-awareness at the beginning of the year, lacking a New Year’s resolution that I believed I’d keep, I had an epiphany. How could I justify telling my husband and children to clean up when I was just as guilty?

  It’s not that anyone can tell. The house looks neat and organized, but behind those closet doors and inside those cabinets and drawers, hides twenty years of excess stuff, most of it mine.

  I had also just finished reviewing the 300 finalists for this Chicken Soup for the Soul book, and I was confronted with my own poor behavior after reading these motivational stories. So I sat down at my computer during New Year’s week and made a list of fifty-two de-cluttering projects to do in 2016, some big and some small.

  I tried to make the projects as non-daunting as possible, cutting them into tiny bite-size pieces to the extent that I could. I also decided I can do them in any order I want. I can even leave the most difficult ones till last. They range from the mostly easy — “clean out sock drawer and throw away the gross ones” — to the occasionally awful — “go through basement with Bill and justify every single thing in there or get rid of it.”

  It’s early February as I’m writing this and I’ve done six of the fifty-two projects. By the way, they don’t get crossed off my list until whatever I’ve disposed of has actually left the house… and the back of my car. That means I’ve already made two trips to the thrift shop, two trips to the clothing recycling bin, and one trip to the consignment shop, to truly get rid of the stuff.

  This past weekend I cleaned out the cabinet in which I store pantyhose. That was one of my fifty-two projects, and it was an eye opener. I had at least thirty pairs of white pantyhose, two-thirds of them never opened. I can’t even remember when white pantyhose were last in style except on Snow White. And I found twe
nty pairs of navy pantyhose, too, that I have no use for now. The only survivors of any utility were the black pantyhose and tights and the skin-colored pantyhose (those may also be out of fashion right now, but if you had legs as sickly white as mine you would understand). To think that I’ve been carting around more than one hundred pairs of pantyhose for twenty-five years, moving three times!

  How could I justify telling my husband and children to clean up when I was just as guilty?

  It took me three hours to sort out all the pantyhose and tights. And I must confess I’ve wasted an additional thirty minutes in the last twenty-four hours opening the cabinet and admiring my newly labeled and organized boxes every time I go by.

  One of my big motivators, besides earning bragging and complaining-to-the-family rights in 2017, was that many of my excess possessions could be of value to someone else. The longer I hold onto them, the less valuable they will be to the next person, witness my twenty-years-out-of-style white pantyhose. It’s just selfish to hold onto these things that may be of benefit to someone else.

  The cold weather got us thinking and we cleaned out our coat closets over the weekend, too. I had already given away my excess coats in prior years, but my husband found more than a dozen men’s coats and jackets — his and our son’s — that he can share with people in our community. We don’t need two of everything. It’s a bit of a thrill now to open those doors, see everything with one glance, and not worry about throwing out my back stuffing a heavy coat onto a crowded rack.

  Another impetus for this project is the thought of leaving this for our children to manage. We don’t expect to die for three or four decades, but what if something were to happen? I spent three backbreaking months cleaning out my grandmother’s apartment a few years ago, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

  I’m quite excited about my year of projects, and I have to restrain myself from doing even more of the projects now. After all, I have a job and other responsibilities, so my fifty-two projects will have to be spread out over fifty-two weeks. In the meantime, my husband and my children won’t be hearing any complaints from me. They get a whole year off.